"I--I--Monsieur le Docteur--that is, I wish...."
"Confound it, sir, what do you wish?"
The Chevalier brushed away a tear.
"Dites-moi," he said with suppressed agitation. "One word--yes or no--is he dangerous?"
My father's countenance softened.
"My good friend," he said, gently, "we are none of us safe for even a day, or an hour; but after all, that which we call danger is merely a relative position. I have known men in a state more precarious than yours who lived to a long old age, and I see no reason to doubt that with good living, good spirits, and precaution, you stand as fair a chance as another."
The little Frenchman pressed his hands together in token of gratitude, whispered a broken word or two of thanks, and bowed himself out of the room.
When he was fairly gone, my father flung a book at my head, and said, with more brevity than politeness:--
"Boy, bolt the door."